Kathmiya sang a song that didn’t exist. She twirled around like the dancers pictured in Leah’s magazines, who moved to the rhythm of music she would never hear. And she embraced this fresh, unbelievably sensational feeling called hope.
Uncle Haider was coming over. He’d make it all right. Better than the time he’d given her an extra blanket—Fatimah even saw, what a look in her eyes. Better than the time he took Kathmiya hunting so she could see how they skinned the buffalo. And better than that connected feeling whenever she visited him and he called out her name before he even saw her.
Uncle Haider had three sons, and only one was married. That left two others who were eligible.
The lapping water sounded musical. The rustle of the wind in the reeds was like a song broadcast over Baghdad Radio. The buzz of mosquitoes was a cheering victory parade.
Jamila didn’t look nearly so happy.
“What’s the matter?” Kathmiya asked, her face lit by the glow of the heated dung-bricks. “Aren’t you glad to get rid of me?”
Her mother sighed. “I’m happy that you’ll be back home.”
“And?” she challenged in that stubbornly direct manner which, though it set her apart, was one of her indelible features, like wild hair or large eyes.
“And,” said Jamila, exasperated, “I’m just like you—relieved that you will finally have a husband!”
“So now you admit it’s about time?” Kathmiya asked. But Jamila didn’t answer.
Uncle Haider’s skin shone reddish brown and he wore a plain dishdasha as gray as the sun-baked clay pots. The muted earth tones all around relaxed Kathmiya, who still sometimes felt overwhelmed by the harsh colors and slick textures that seemed to coat every surface of the city.
When he greeted his niece, there was nothing about the words he spoke that she could point to in explaining how secure he made her feel, but everything in the way he said them. The simplicity of his wholesome love was like a canoe on the river: everyday and essential.
As the two brothers discussed a neighboring tribe—despite how they were viewed by the rest of Iraq, the Marsh Arabs didn’t think of themselves as all one “Midaan”—Kathmiya imagined being closer to her uncle after the engagement. Maybe he could get Ali off the arak. Maybe instead of causing so many fights, Kathmiya would be the one bringing the family together.
Haider seemed extra tender toward Kathmiya, praising her cooking and her manners and her kindness. It threw her off just a bit, this excess show of affection, but she served him tea with sweetened buffalo milk, still hopeful that there would be good news by the end of the night.
Ali never raised the subject, so Kathmiya spoke up.
“How is Abdul?” she asked. That was her first-choice cousin to marry. His eyes, while not as warm as Shafiq’s, were at least friendly.
“Very well, thanks be to Allah.” They had already gone over this ground when Haider arrived, but Kathmiya wasn’t asking out of formality. She nodded toward her mother. “Anything you wanted to ask Uncle Haider?”
Finally, the words: “Have you thought about finding him a wife?”
Uncle Haider shifted on the reed mat where they all sat.
Kathmiya felt her face go red.
“No,” he said.
“But he’s getting older, time for a family, right?” Kathmiya asked, training her black eyes on Haider, so fierce he wouldn’t look back at her.
“Jamila…” he said. Meaning, Jamila, stop your daughter before she makes this situation worse. But Jamila only stared in response. “Yes—I mean no. We want him to marry. But not—” Haider tried to look away from the women, but his eyes flickered toward Kathmiya almost involuntarily, as if to apologize without words.
Her heart was pounding. She wanted to disappear back to when her worst problem was working as a maid in Basra, not being openly rejected in her own family. More than anything, Kathmiya wanted to end the conversation.
But Jamila was suddenly, awfully, painfully singing her praises. “Kathmiya is a fine girl, very hardworking, she even earns money. And don’t worry about the bride-price—” Haider was already shaking his head, looking down, the firelight casting shadows on his conflicted face.
“Thank you,” he said, to cut her off. Even when he was killing Kathmiya, Haider was compassionate. He knew she wanted this over and was trying to end it.
But he didn’t manage to stop Ali from saying, “Abdul will not marry Kathmiya.”
Kathmiya burned. Her father knew all along, and he still set up this charade of a dinner.
Tears as hot as the tea she had just served stung Kathmiya’s eyes as she walked outside. They wet the front of her best dress, the one that Jamila had just that day said made her look pretty.
She was too angry at first to listen to her mother and Uncle Haider whispering outside, on the other side of the hut. But slowly, she tuned in to their conversation over the sound of the nocturnal marsh insects.
“You of all people should help,” Jamila was scolding.
“I couldn’t,” Haider answered. “He knows.”
Knows what? Kathmiya held still. “He” must be Ali, but what he knew she couldn’t guess.
“Look at it this way,” Uncle Haider said to Jamila. “I had right of first refusal, and now that I’ve turned you down there are even more options.”
“How can you say that?” Jamila pleaded softly. Kathmiya felt like she was walking on a narrow bridge over a deep river. If she could just grab hold of what she did to make her father so angry, she might reach the other side.
Gathering her courage, she edged out of the darkness and faced her mother and uncle. “What does he know?” she asked. “What did I do?”
Haider started. “Go back inside,” he said, but so kindly, so gently, Kathmiya had to obey. She turned to leave.
“Your life is blessed,” Jamila called after her.
“She’s right,” Haider agreed, but Kathmiya just shook her head and retreated.